


Everybody Loves Bedsharing

by Anonymous



Category: Bernice Summerfield (Books & Audio)
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Gen, Hair Washing, Platonic Cuddling, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23817070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: this was inspired by the audio Everybody Loves Irving (can you tell?) because they teased me with the "Oh No There's Only One Bed!" trope and then CHICKENED OUT. it was still cute tho :-/
Relationships: Irving Braxiatel & Bernice Summerfield
Comments: 15
Kudos: 27
Collections: Anonymous





	Everybody Loves Bedsharing

It was raining by the time they arrived, a fact that was not entirely unexpected, but almost definitely unwelcome. The battered little freighter stuttered to a halt entirely too far from the warmth and light of the equally-battered little hotel, its exhaust ports coughing out a protest as it slumped down into the mud. Even through the downpour, she could tell their surroundings were bleak; she’d been on enough miserable excuses for planetoids to know well enough when she’d stumbled onto another one. Muddy and grey, and decidedly allergic to the sun. The moment she stepped out of the ship—after battering at the exterior door until it reluctantly opened—her foot sank deep into the sodden earth.

“Fuck!”

“Language, Bernice,” came a smooth voice, from the other side of the ship. “We wouldn’t wish to make a poor impression of ourselves to the locals, would we?”

Bernice scowled, tugging at her boot. “That’s assuming the locals could even understand me. This isn’t a human colony, is it? You didn’t say.”

“No,” Braxiatel said, appearing suddenly and taking a long, appraising look at her muddied struggle. “But they are proficient in a great number of languages, I believe.” She was annoyed to notice that he looked relatively untouched by the maelstrom around them, save for the unavoidable damp. He stood atop the sticky, cloying ground as though it were as solid as concrete, those undoubtedly expensive shoes of his barely sunken an inch. He had a suitcase clasped in one hand.

“Do they know any words for ‘get me out of this mud or I swear to all that is holy and good, I will r—‘”

“Ah,” Braxiatel cut her off, “turn your foot to the left a little, where the mud’s a little thinner. There you have it.”

She did as he instructed, reaching out occasionally to steady herself on his proffered arm. After a minute or two of struggling, her foot finally popped free, and she was quietly amused at Braxiatel’s scowl of dismay as he glanced down at his newly mud-spattered suit. “Thank you,” she smiled, standing up straight and wiping her filthy hands on her trousers—which really only managed to make them filthier. “Now, what was this you said about a five star hotel?”

Braxiatel seemed to deliberate for a moment, then finally: “I never quite said… five stars.”

“No, you definitely did.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, three times. On the flight over here. I counted.”

“Are you sure I didn’t—”

“Three. Times.”

“Ah.”

“Ah?”

Braxiatel beamed at her suddenly. “Well, it’s all relative.”

“It really isn’t.”

“Oh, my dear Bernice—the universe is a vast and varied locale! That which is squalor to some may very well be luxury to another!”

“Masochists, maybe,” she grunted, beginning to pick her way across the waterlogged soil, “or Jason. How bad _is_ this place, anyway?”

“Sporadic heating, less than stellar room service,” Braxiatel said, waving his free hand dismissively, “but the best I could arrange on such short notice. If I had known in advance that we would be staying the night, I could surely have pulled a few strings here and there.”

“Known in _advance?_ ” Bernice scoffed. “You’re a time-traveller!”

Braxiatel glared at her, but there was no heat in it. “You know how complicated—"

“Hey, the place doesn’t look half bad, actually!” Bernice cut him off, striding ahead. The rains had eased off a little, giving her a clearer view of the squat little building up ahead. It wasn’t likely to win any awards, but it had a roof and four walls, and she’d certainly slept in worse. Besides, the shelter of a cardboard box would be a miracle in this weather. She kept up the pace until she reached the door, hearing Braxiatel squelching hurriedly to catch up with her. His usual swift and silent act wasn’t half so effective when the ground seemed awfully determined to swallow his shoes.

“It is rather late,” he said, finally reaching her side, “but they should be expecting us. I called ahead.”

“You did? When?”

“When you were in the ship’s bathroom, waving goodbye to that rather expensive brandy I had acquired for you.”

“Oh,” she said, screwing up her face, “I didn’t like it much.”

“That was hardly the impression _I_ got.”

She was about to protest when the door in front of them suddenly swung open, and a squat little alien glared up at her, bleary-eyed. He was wrinkled all over, his thick skin a yellow that edged closer to grey. He didn’t speak, just grunted, and stepped aside to let them through and out of the rain. Bernice resisted the urge to shake herself like a wet dog as they huddled together in what must’ve passed as the foyer. Braxiatel was having an indecipherable, but undoubtedly amicable, conversation with the little man—who Bernice figured must definitely be the hotel manager. She wasn’t entirely sure, because it was far too quick to track, but she had the distinct feeling that money had passed hands.

“He’s set aside the second room on the left, just as you head upstairs,” Braxiatel told her, passing her the suitcase he’d brought inside. She could recognise a dismissal when she heard one, but opted against any sort of protestation—she could tell by the imperceptible little fidget that Brax himself was eager to make his own exit, but far too polite to do so.

“Just the one?”

“Hm?”

“Just the one room?” she clarified.

“Oh, yes, yes. Busy time of year. Not to worry, I made all the necessary logistical arrangements.” Braxiatel gave her a warm smile, before lapsing back into conversation with the hotel manager.

She shrugged, and hefted the suitcase—what the hell did he carry in this thing, anyway?—towards the stairs, eager to get her head down and get some rest. It took a little bit of awkward manoeuvring to reach the landing, as tight a squeeze as it was through the claustrophobic little stairwell, with a bulging rucksack on her back. The hallway ahead was dimly lit, the decrepit ceiling lights casting a sickly yellow glow that far too quickly dissolved into darkness. “Hm. Homely,” she muttered, dragging the suitcase along the floorboards until she reached the door Braxiatel had identified.

The handle felt cold to the touch as she reached forward to open it, and it was only then that she noticed the chill in the air. The slight sheen of sweat she’d worked up on her climb was evaporating quickly, leaving her exposed arms prickled with gooseflesh. She’d tied her jacket round her waist back on the shuttle, the rickety old engines having so poorly dissipated their heat that the main crew area had been bordering on the tropical. Braxiatel had, as was typical, seemed entirely unaffected, but she’d been complaining the whole ride over. Now, she had to admit she was missing the cloying warmth.

The door squeaked open easily enough, but the inside of the room was pitch black—unsurprisingly, automatic lighting was a little above the establishment’s paygrade. She shuffled in backwards, still scraping the heavy suitcase across the floorboards. Once it was fully inside, she reached over and nudged the door with her fingertips, letting it swing gently shut. A quick flick of the light switch, and the room was bathed in a buzzing light that looked just as unhealthy as in the hallway outside. She squinted up at the ceiling, then sighed. It would have to do.

There was a small hallway of sorts before the room opened up further, with a doorway leading off into an _en suite_ bathroom; a quick peek inside informed her that, whilst it was a far cry from luxury, it at least didn’t promise any diseases. She untied her jacket and threw it on the low table that sat against the wall opposite, intending to undress and head straight for a bath while Braxiatel amused himself downstairs. She was wandering further into the room, halfway through lifting up her shirt when she saw it.

_“BRAXIATEL!”_

☾✩☽

To her knowledge, Irving Braxiatel did not hold any records—official or otherwise—for the hundred-metre sprint, but based solely on the speed at which he shot upstairs and reached her, Bernice figured he was probably deserving. She’d barely had time to tug her shirt back down before the room door swung open, revealing a decidedly flustered Braxiatel frozen in place, cool gaze darting around for signs of danger. He relaxed somewhat when the only one he could identify was a very disgruntled Bernice Summerfield, standing before him with her arms crossed.

“Just the one?” she repeated, parroting their brief exchange from earlier.

“The… room, yes. Just the one room,” Braxiatel responded, cautiously. The faint bewilderment that slipped across his features—for a brief second, nothing more—had her suddenly realising that he might not actually be aware of the problem.

“Not just the _room_ ,” she said curtly, stepping aside so that she was no longer blocking his view.

He moved forward, tentatively, then drew to a halt again as he spotted it. “Ah. One… bed.”

She didn’t respond with anything other than a tight nod.

“A moment, please, Bernice.” His voice sounded somewhat strained as he slipped outside again.

She could hear a hurried conversation on the other side of the door, but couldn’t make out the words—they were muffled by the barrier between, and in a whole different language besides. She stood there awkwardly for a few minutes, but the itchiness of the drying mud on her skin was getting to her, and more than anything she needed a good, long soak, so she started peeling off her clothes again, dropping them in an unruly pile and heading straight for the bathroom.

☾✩☽

It felt like another twenty minutes before she heard the room door squeak open and click closed again, and the accompanying silence told her that Braxiatel no longer had company. She sunk lower in her bath—mercifully hot, despite the ambient temperatures, and hummed in contentment. Brax could take the other room he’d no doubt secured from the hotel manager, she was perfectly comfortable in this one already. In fact, she was fighting off the beginnings of sleep when there was a sharp, polite knock at the bathroom door, followed by a vague, muffled noise that may have been her name.

“What?!” she shouted, cracking one eye open.

There was a reply, equally muffled, and totally indecipherable.

She grunted, then gripped the sides of the bath and shifted upwards a little, the water splashing around her. “I can’t _hear_ you!”

The doorknob began to turn for a brief moment, then stopped, as though Braxiatel had just managed to compute what he might be intruding upon. In the long hesitation that accompanied, she sighed heavily. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before, and besides, she’d poured in so much bubble bath that there was no real way to confirm that she was anything more than a floating head through visuals alone. “Oh, for pity’s sake. Just come in!”

There was another long moment, then the door clicked open, and Braxiatel poked his head round. She glared at him until he entered fully, standing there awkwardly in his tailored suit, looking as though he were about to deliver the most terrible news. “I’ve had a word with the manager, and—”

“You’ll be taking the other room, then? Great. Excellent. Pass me the shampoo, would you?”

“Ah, not… quite,” Braxiatel said, scanning the line-up of various complementary hygiene products and selecting one from their midst. He read the label, and seemed to nod briefly, as though satisfied with his choice, before handing it over to her. “The other rooms are all booked up. We’re very much stuck with this one, I’m afraid.”

“I can’t imagine why. This is hardly a holiday destination.” Bernice pondered that for a moment as she assessed his choice—some sort of fruity infusion with ingredients she didn’t know and a scent she didn’t recognise, but she had to admit it was nice. “Who gets the floor?” she asked, squeezing the shampoo onto her palm.

“I’m sorry?”

“Who—” she paused for a moment to rub the soapy liquid into her hair, “is sleeping on the floor tonight?”

“I thought that would have been obvious, Bernice. I am more than happy to—”

She cut him off with a glare, but had to quickly squeeze her eyes shut to avoid the sting of suds dripping in.

“Oh, alright. It’s not ideal, I’ll give you that, but you ought to know by now that your comfort is, and shall always be, a top priority.” She couldn’t see him, but she could hear the sudden uncertainty in his pause, and the rustle of overly-expensive fabric as he moved closer. “And that—” she felt his fingers nudge hers aside as they slid into her hair, infinitely gentle, “is an _awful_ technique.”

She sat very still as he gently massaged her scalp, tugging apart the tangles in her hair softly enough that she felt no pain. She still didn’t open her eyes, perhaps because the soap was still a lingering threat, or perhaps because there was a strange, suffocating intimacy to the moment, that to disturb would be sacrilege. She heard him hum under his breath, briefly and quietly, but just as she was settling into the feeling, allowing herself to admit she was actually _enjoying_ it, he withdrew.

“There,” he said, matter-of-factly, as though he’d done nothing more than correct a few spelling errors in her latest publication. She splashed water on her face and opened her eyes, but he was avoiding her gaze. “Do remember to rinse properly.” And with that, he was gone, the bathroom door clicking shut behind him.

She sat unmoving for a while, but she wasn’t really thinking anything at all. Eventually, she reached for the jug she’d set aside, and began filling it with fresh water.

☾✩☽

When she emerged from the bathroom some time later, happily clad in the pyjamas she’d had stuffed at the bottom of her rucksack, she was amused—but not quite surprised—to find her muddied clothes neatly folded by the door, her shoes tucked beside them. There was no point giving them a scrub at this point, not when they’d be back out in the mud by the morning, so she padded past them, emerging into the bedroom proper as she finished towelling her hair. It wasn’t quite dry yet, but she hadn’t brought a hairdryer and the damp was at least tolerable.

“What are you reading?” she asked, as she flung the towel in the general direction of Braxiatel, sitting on the edge of the bed.

He caught it only as it thumped against his chest, which really didn’t count as catching it at all, she thought. His cool gaze was bordering on the amused as he looked up, catching sight of the little ducklings that adorned her choice of sleepwear. “Shipping manifests, for the artefacts we’ve embarked on this merry jaunt to track down,” he replied, switching off the datapad as she approached. “Terribly boring, as one might expect.”

“Oh, I don’t know, there’s something awfully sexy about all those facts and figures,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she fanned herself with a hand, “and don’t get me _started_ on the bureaucratic approval forms! _Woof!”_

“Yes, very amusing,” he hummed, sounding as though it were anything but. She knew him too well, though, could see the twinkle in his eye and that tiny upturn of his mouth, just at the corner. He began folding the towel she’d thrown at him, tucking it into a neat little square before setting it aside with the datapad. “Bedtime already?”

She stretched, groaning with it, almost as a reply in and of itself. “Yeah, long day tomorrow. Thought I’d at least get what rest I can before we head out again.”

“Mm, a wise choice,” he stood up, dusting himself off to divest himself of the evident nothing that adorned his suit—she was intrigued to notice that even the dirt flecks from earlier were totally absent, and wondered why her own clothes hadn’t gotten the same treatment. “I shan’t disturb you.”

“You aren’t staying?” Bernice said, moving over to the bed to peel back the covers. She gave the sheets a cursory once-over to check for any undesirables, then, satisfied, she crawled underneath them.

“Ah, no. I was intending to return later, but I thought that—” he faltered.

“That I wouldn’t want you to stick around as I fell asleep?”

“Quite.”

“I don’t mind.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, and simply settled for tilting his head ever so slightly to one side. She suddenly felt awkward, unsure.

“I just mean that— well, I just meant— you know, if you _wanted_ to stay, I really can’t say I would _complain_ —” she cut off, grunted her frustration.

“Bernice,” Braxiatel started, his voice laced with absolute and total amusement, “would you like me to read you a bedtime story?”

She gasped, reached for the nearest suitable projectile—a pillow, thankfully—and launched it directly at his head. “You’re _mocking_ me!”

He batted the pillow away with ease, caught it before it flopped to the floor. “Only just.” He moved over to the bed, gently set the pillow down beside her. “I really do know a great many stories.” His tone was no longer teasing, just a simple, soft statement of fact.

She crossed her legs under the covers, scooted backwards up the bed so she was sitting flush to the headboard, and patted the space beside her. “Come. Sit.”

Braxiatel, to his credit, hesitated only a moment before complying, slipping out of his suit jacket and laying it across a nearby chair. His shoes, she realised, were already off, and she had a momentary feeling of absurdity at seeing something so simple as Braxiatel in his _socks_. His outfit was every part his identity as his face and personality; she knew it was, in many ways, another method by which he could distance himself—any state of undress, no matter how small or how fleeting, made him relatable; made him human; made him _vulnerable_. And so, to see him present so casual, in neatly-pressed shirtsleeves and absurdly expensive socks, was a rare occurrence indeed.

Her musings were interrupted as he settled on the bed, which she now realised was really far too small for both of them at once. She could tell that he’d realised that at the same moment, and now he was frozen awkwardly, quite unsure where to place himself. _Bloody Time Lords_ , she sighed internally, before adding a quick expletive and shuffling over to him. He seemed distinctly surprised as she tucked herself up beside him, but it was as though the contact soothed him, drained the tension from his shoulders as his body began to process the feeling. She had the brief, distant idea that this sort of thing—this casual intimacy—was utterly alien, and utterly new to him.

“You are… bloody _cold._ ” Okay, it probably wasn’t the most reassuring of statements to make, but it was entirely true. It wasn’t like she was cuddled up to an ice sculpture, or anything—although, sometimes the comparison felt apt for Braxiatel—but she could feel how cool he was through the thin material of his shirt. Like stone, like something not quite alive at all.

He glanced down at her as she furiously rubbed her hands up and down his forearm, as through trying to pour some of her own heat into him. “The natural body temperature of my people is far below the human standard. I didn’t think this would be surprising to you, after all your time travelling with… well, you know.”

“We didn’t exactly have many opportunities to—” she cut off suddenly, scowled. “Nevermind.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Dare I ask?”

“Probably best not,” she laughed, awkwardly, then quickly changed the subject. “So, anyway, what are these stories you mentioned? Any good ones about digging stuff up? You know how I love digging stuff up!”

“Hm,” he mused, leaning back against the headboard proper, “perhaps one or two. Though, I confess, perhaps not up to your usual standards of excitement. You do have a certain penchant for turning a routine archaeological dig into—”

“Armageddon, yes. I call that a talent.”

He didn’t look back down at her, but gave a small smile all the same. “I daresay it keeps things exciting. But, no— no stories of that calibre, I’m afraid.” He paused, tilted his head to one side. “Although, there _was_ an incident on Echilles IV…”

☾✩☽

She wasn’t entirely sure when she fell asleep; the last thing she could recall was Braxiatel recanting some tall tale about an alien species she’d never heard of and the rather odd things they do at birthday parties, and then it was all blank—which, honestly, was really frustrating, because she had a feeling that what he’d went on to tell her had been rather scandalous indeed. She shifted, blinking the sleep out of her eyes, and suddenly froze.

“Good morning, Bernice,” came that soft, cultured voice she knew so well.

“I— what time is it?” she managed, still very careful not to move a muscle. _Good, Bernice, good. Start with the easy stuff. Work your way up. Delay as long as possible until you can figure out why exactly you fell asleep cuddling your bloody boss—and more importantly, why he’s cuddling you back. Oh, and for fuck’s sake, he really is cold, isn’t he?_

“Five in the morning, I believe. Our shuttle to the marketplace won’t leave in another…” she felt him shift, presumably to sneak a glance at his watch without disturbing her overly much, “two hours, I would say.”

“Mm.” _Shit, she was all out of the easy stuff._ “Brax?”

“Yes, Bernice?”

“Why are we— I mean, why are you—” she faltered, unsure of what to say.

“You…” he trailed off, then seemed to rediscover his confidence, “well, you asked me to stay. Here, like this.”

“Ah. I wasn’t drunk, was I?”

“Not at that point, I should think.”

“I see.”

The fact of the matter was, really, they weren’t just _close_ —that was pretty much where she could remember them being, last night. Tucked up against each other, but no more than that. Now, however, it was fair to say that they were most definitely _cuddling_ , his arms wrapped around her, such as they were. In fact, her face was still tucked into his chest. She wasn’t entirely sure what to do with that information. Even less sure what to do about the knowledge that, apart from the thermodynamically-challenged aspect of it all, it was really rather—well, _nice._ It wasn’t like with Jason, where that sort of intimacy was constantly underlaid with a sparking sort of frisson that usually led to… _other_ things; this was innocent, nothing more than it was. And, dammit, sometimes it just felt good to be held.

Braxiatel’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “I take it, from your lack of hurried escape or vicious attack that— well, that you don’t mind.” He sounded endearingly unsure, an uncommon thing for him.

“No, I don’t mind,” her mouth managed to say before her brain caught up. But even as she processed the words, she knew them to be true.

“Oh. Good.”

“Good?” Now, she did move, tilting her head up to look at him as best she could from that angle. He glanced down, fleetingly, but quickly averted his gaze.

“Well, I—” he cleared his throat, seemed to be searching for the words, “I rather… Ah.”

She found herself smiling, and huffed out a laugh, burying her face in his chest again. It was only now she realised she could hear them, those two hearts pumping away, a constant drumbeat. She found it was oddly soothing. “I know, Brax. I know.”

“We should probably get up,” he said, after a long silence, “and get ready for the shuttle.”

“Mmm.”

“Bernice— Benny. Are you listening to me?”

“Mhmmm.”

“You’re really not, are you?”

“Nope.”

He let out a soft sigh, and she could practically hear him mentally rearranging the day’s schedule, even as his arms tightened around her.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this all in one go at 5am and it's the first fic i've completed in five bazillion years!!!! and my first time writing benny and brax so pls forgive me if there's any inconsistencies........ ironically this fic didn't end up focusing on the bed thing as much as i initially intended it to? but it ended up being structured as like, this is the First Ever time they do this and then it just becomes a normal thing for them :-)


End file.
